Pineapple Pie
by blc
Summary: An M-Rated rumination on why Booth loves pie, and what he thinks his favorite flavor will be. By Demand, now, an Ep-Pie-Logue with a wee bit of smut. Disclaimer: Bones isn't mine. Plot, dialogue are.
1. Chapter 1

Booth loved pie. Booth also loved making love to women. He didn't just love making love to women because he was cocky, though he knew he was good—mostly, he just loved women. Loved the way they looked, each curve of their body dipping and rising. Loved their skin, the soft feel of it under his hands. Loved the way they would flush, spots of pink on their cheeks and their chests when he kissed them breathless. He especially loved the sounds that they made, gasps and pants and mewls, groans and moans and sighs, screams and wordless calls and outright shrieks of release. However they said it, he liked when his first or last name was followed by "more," or "please." Booth loved the feel of their mouths under his, warm, silken and sweet.

There were lots of great parts about making love to a woman. While he sure as hell wasn't going to say no to a blow job, and the actual sex part was always incredible, if he had to choose his favorite part of the whole making love thing, say, if he had to give the rest of it up, then he'd have to say that he loved to taste women. Each had their own flavor, the taste of their skin and their mouths and their centers the same and yet shading from lighter to heavier. Their tastes shifted-- from simply sweet, to salty and sweet, to that perfect combination of tart, sweet, and salt, the thick, ripe flavor of them as they came, because their bodies knew—Booth loved making love to women, and loved to taste them. Women were like a perfect piece of apple pie, except infinitely better, because pie doesn't grab your hair when you're eating it and scream your name like a banshee.

Not that all of them tasted like apples. Some were like cherries, or apricots, or blueberries. Sometimes peach, even a few huckleberries. There was one plum, a raisin, even a pumpkin. That pumpkin was special. One of them tasted like mangoes, though he'd never had a mango pie before. He'd tried a mango parfait, once, and it was pretty close, and he bet mango pie would have been closer to that particular woman.

The smell of their hair or their perfume wasn't the sole key to finding out what they tasted like. It required personal inspection, the careful, teasing, slow application of his nose and his mouth to their skin, before he could fully conclude what flavor they were, while they whimpered and flushed and did all the other things he liked so much. He'd gotten better at guessing, though, over the years. Some observation of their personalities, a fair amount of hair sniffing while they weren't looking, the casual touch or the arm around the shoulder to feel the warmth of them under his hand, and he could usually tell. But it never hurt to ask, because amazingly, their personal preference was usually the way that they ended up tasting. He liked to try to guess first, then ask, and last but not least, taste for himself.

0 0 0

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just answer the question."

"Fine. Pineapple."

"Hah. I knew it."

"How could you possibly know that my favorite fruit is pineapple, Booth?"

"Secret Seeley Booth powers, Bones. Trust me on this."

"I thought it was special FBI powers."

"Nah, Bones, this one's personal."

"So if you're so smart, then explain why it's my favorite fruit."

"Well, see, pineapple requires special attention, but it's worth every bit of it. First, you have to make sure it's perfectly ripe. You have to peel it just so, taking care to remove all the eyes carefully, so you remove all the prickles but don't damage the fruit. Then you remove the fruit from the core, because it can sometimes be hard and bitter. But if you do everything right, get that perfect pineapple that just needs the right preparation? When you take that first bite, it's that perfect, over-the-top blend of sweetness and tartness. The flavor bursts in your mouth, practically overwhelms your senses. The way flesh feels under your teeth is like no other fruit. It makes your mouth water. The juices drip down your chin when you're eating it-- it gets all over your hands, and you find yourself licking up each drop, then going back for more, to make sure you've gotten every last bit of it. It requires all your concentration to prepare it for eating, but when you do, it's like no other fruit in the world. "

"Yes. Yes, exactly."

0 0 0

He'd never had a pineapple pie. Yet. But he was sure it would be his favorite of all.


	2. EpPieLogue

_**All you people with cravings for more pineapple pie!!! All you smut monsters need to get your minds out of the pie plate.**_

_**Since several people asked so nicely, here's a small slice, that I hope satisfies your appetite. **_

_************************  
**_

Four years, six months, two weeks, three days, to taste that perfect, ripe, pineapple pie-- the one that beckoned to him ever since he first saw it, the golden rind and those prickly green eyes and that goddamned heavenly smell tempting him every single damned day. He started removing the prickly eyes first, that first year, every barbed comment, critical correction, and snotty look slowly giving way, that last eye yielding to hardly any pressure at all when she let him hold her in McVicker's barn and tell her he knew who she was.

The next year, well, the inedible bottom, the spiky green top, useless attempts to shield the tempting insides now that the eyes and the rind were gone-- she cast them off on her own when she decided to stay after Sully left. He knew it, he just didn't ask-- though he was joyful inside, especially given his idiocy in dabbling in raisins and pumpkin that year.

The third year? Well, he wasn't quite sure what happened there, except that he thought it just needed more time. The fruit stood there, glistening, tempting, the rind and eyes gone, everything but the core peeled away, its fragrance so incredible he couldn't smell anything else. His mouth watered that whole goddamned year. He was afraid, though, after Epps, to try to remove the fruit from its tough, bitter core-- it was still what held the fruit together, even after the peel and the eyes and the top and the bottom were gone. He hadn't expected that she'd do it herself, a goddamned self-preparing pineapple-- at her dad's trial, then when he died and she begged him to hold on, then socked him as hard as he'd deserved at his damned resurrection. That third year and into the fourth, she slowly sectioned herself-- leaning her head on his shoulder after Zack, not sleeping with Wexler, getting him that stupid office chair, paying him compliments, fixing his back, defending him to their therapist.

He hadn't planned on it, that fourth year, sixth month, second week and third day-- it just happened. The last section just fell into his lap, as they finished their paperwork at her house, on her couch, and she turned to him. "I'm sick of your stupid line, Booth," she said, a small smile nonetheless curving her mouth. "And this surrogate relationship, too, as much as it's nice to spend so much non-work time with you."

He was speechless. He was going to get some pineapple pie! He'd never hesitated before, and yet here he was, sitting here catching flies with his mouth when he could be enjoying pineapple pie, right now, this very instant.

"What's the matter, Booth," she asked, leaning in saucily, her breath tickling his face. She knew she had him when his jaw dropped. And when his pants tented-- the jaw dropped first, but only seconds before. But it was a hell of a tent, she thought appraisingly. "Forensic anthropologist got your tongue?"

He closed his mouth, grinned, and then stood, pulling her up and managing to get them both naked and on top of her bed in an instant. "Something like that," he said, as he bent to kiss her, the taste of her mouth sweet, tart, intoxicating. Yep, pineapple, the most worth-it fruit in the world. "My tongue's all yours, baby," he growled-- then started to feast. He smelled her, filling his nose with the salt-fruity notes of her skin, the way she buckled and curved under his tongue and his hands. He let her melt on his tongue, first, slow and teasing, until she was begging for more. The flesh of her core, her warm filling, in his mouth and under the light bite of his teeth as he tested her was like nothing else. She was firm and yet yielding, covered in thick, salty-tart-sweet juices-- completely over-the-top, out-of-this-world, unbelievably, incredibly, worth it.

"Aah!! Seeley! Oh! More!" she screamed, her cheeks and chest pink, her breath panting. She wailed again right before the rush hit his tongue, flooding his mouth. The juices dripped on his chin, on his hands, and he licked up every last drop, just as he said he would, two months, two weeks and one day ago. He'd kept track. Baking time was important.

Yep. Pineapple pie was his favorite. Pineapple pie that grabbed your hair and screamed "Oh, God, Booth! Please!" like a banshee.

Booth loved pineapple pie. Booth also loved making love to Bones. He didn't just love making love to Bones because he was cocky, though he knew he was good—mostly, he just loved Bones. Period. Whether she was pineapple or not. But the pineapple? It didn't hurt.


End file.
